When I finally got home that day, I felt like my head was about to explode. My body was tired, but my mind was worse. I had been thinking too much on the bus, thinking too much in class, and even walking home from the bus stop, the same thoughts followed me like shadows.
As soon as I opened the front door, the house felt heavy. The kind of heavy that made you want to tiptoe so no one noticed you.
My mom was sitting in the living room, her face cold like always. I dropped my bag gently on the floor and greeted her quietly.
"Good evening, Mom."
She looked at me for a second, then looked away like I didn't even matter. No reply. Just silence.
That silence cut deeper than shouting ever could.
I carried my bag and walked quickly to my room. I shut the door softly, leaned against it, and then the tears came. The ones I had been holding in all day.
It hurt so much. Out of all people in the world, my own mother also hated me. Or at least, that's how it felt. She didn't care how my day went, didn't care if I was tired, didn't care if I was hurting inside. She didn't even look at me like I was her daughter anymore.
And it wasn't the first time.
I remembered one morning when I was younger. I had gotten ready for school, standing in front of her, waiting for her to notice me. My shoes were polished, my hair tied neatly, but she only glanced at me and said, "Why do you look like that?" The words stayed in my chest like a scar. I cried quietly in school that day.
Another time, during dinner, I tried to talk to her, to tell her something funny that happened in class. She cut me off before I even finished, saying, "Keep quiet, you talk too much." That night I ate my food with tears in my eyes.
And the worst was when I needed comfort. When my so-called friends betrayed me in middle school and I came home crying, hoping she would at least hug me. Instead, she said, "Stop crying. You're just weak." From that day, I learned to cry alone.
Those memories filled my head now as I sat on the edge of my bed, holding my knees close to my chest.
I cried quietly so nobody else could hear. My siblings were probably in their rooms or outside playing, but I felt completely alone.
Sometimes I wondered why I was even born. Why God gave me to a family where I felt like a stranger. Why I couldn't have a mother who smiled at me, hugged me, or told me she loved me.
The more I thought about it, the harder I cried.
I pressed my face into my pillow, hoping the sound would not escape. My chest ached. My eyes burned. And in that moment, I hated myself even more for caring so much.
I was already invisible at school, but being invisible at home was worse. Because home was supposed to be safe. Home was supposed to be love. But for me, home was just another place where I didn't belong.
That night, as I cried myself to sleep, I realized something: no matter where I went, I couldn't escape this feeling. At school I was lonely. At home I was unwanted. And everywhere in between, I was just a girl pretending she was okay when inside she was breaking into a thousand pieces.